


Different

by aljohnson



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Developing Relationship, Other, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aljohnson/pseuds/aljohnson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tim no longer wants to be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different

**Author's Note:**

> Head-canon ahoy, following the UK broadcast of 3x08 (finale) last night. 
> 
> I have in my mind that this happened sometime shortly after Colin Monk came on the scene, and after Patrick and Shelagh have been grilled by Timothy on such important topics as Pocket Money, room sharing and Choir Duty shirking.

“Shelagh”, Timothy poked his head around the kitchen door, looking for his step-mum. He found her, bent over the cooker, wrestling something from the small heated space with oven gloves.

“Yes, Timothy”, said Shelagh, her face brightening to a smile as she carefully transferred the cake tin to a wire rack, “what can I do for you”.

“Erm, well, it’s about…” the boy’s voice trailed off, and Shelagh looked at him. His face bore the same tell-tale signs which Patrick’s did when he wanted to discuss something but wasn't sure where to start.

“It’s about….” Shelagh responded, having learnt that the best way to get something out of the Turner men was by gentle coaxing rather than direct questioning.

“It’s about the baby” spluttered Tim, still resolutely avoiding eye contact, and finding a cupboard door to be suddenly fascinating.

“What about the baby?”

“Well, erm, it’s about names and stuff” Tim turned his attention to the precise alignment of the table cloth lying over the kitchen table.

“Oh. Well. We haven’t really thought about names yet, we don’t even know whether it will be a girl or a boy,” said Shelagh, hoping briefly that it would be a girl who was brought into their lives. “But if you’d like to help us with suggestions, that would be lovely. We want you to be involved.” She tried to reassure the boy, she realized that it wasn't going to be easy for him, that several occurrences in the last nine months had not been easy for him, but that he had handled them all with surprising maturity for one so young.

“It wasn't really about that, but thanks, I’ll think about it and make a list”.

“So what is it then?” said Shelagh, moving to sit down at one of the kitchen chairs, indicating to Timothy that he should sit down too.

“It’s just, what will the baby call you and Dad?” Timothy asked as he sat down in the chair with resignation.

Shelagh looked at the boy; she could see a sense of, what was that? Fear? Was that what she could see in the boy’s demeanour? Suddenly she realised; this family they were trying to build would be unusual. Potentially four of them, but only two of them related by the bonds of blood; whereas her, and, she hoped, the future child taken in by them would be blessed with their love and openness and warmth; but with a different sort of bond. She had grown to love Timothy with all her heart; as if he was her child, but there was no escaping the fact that she had not given birth to him.

She hesitated, worried about how to respond. “Well they don’t really call anyone anything at all at first. But when she, or he, can talk, I imagine, well, that is to say, they’ll call your Dad ‘Dad’, and they’ll call me” she hesitated; the word itself was too over-whelming, “well, ‘Mum’”. She blinked back the tears which were threatening to make themselves known, the enormity of the label hitting her like a freight train. 

“Right, yeah, that’s what I thought” said Timothy, quietly, fiddling now with the edge of the table cloth.

Shelagh didn't know what to say, she was in uncharted territory here, and Patrick wouldn't be home for an hour or more. 

“I don’t want to be different” said Timothy, raising his head now to meet Shelagh’s gaze. “I'm always different.”

“How do you mean?” asked Shelagh, suddenly very nervous.

“Well, first mum got ill, and then, and then she died,” Timothy started speaking faster now, “And then it was just me and Dad and he had to do all the ‘mum’ stuff, and he’s lousy at sewing on cub badges, and Akela was really nice about it, even when he messed up my nativity costume, which Mum would have sorted out for me, and then, well, then there’s you, and you do all the ‘mum’ stuff now. And I know it’s different, and Dad and me talked that week when you left being a Nun, and he said he’d never forget her, and that you weren't replacing her and that, and that,” Timothy paused for breath, and to wipe his nose on his sleeve, “he loved you, but he still loved mum, and I know it’s different, but, but” 

“But?” asked Shelagh carefully, reaching out gently to hold the boy’s hand, pleased when he accepted the contact. 

“But you feel like my mum now. And I’d like to start calling you that, cos I want to be like everyone else, who has a mum and a dad, and when the new baby arrives, they’ll get to call you mum, and I don’t want to be different anymore.” 

Silence descended over the kitchen, as Shelagh tried to find the right words. The only sound which broke the silence was the mutual sniffing as they both tried to suppress their tears. 

“I'm not, ever, going to replace your mum. Your Dad’s told me all about her, and she sounds lovely. But if you feel that you would like to call me, ‘mum’, then I would really like that. Have you thought about talking to your Dad about this though, because I wouldn't want us to upset him?” Shelagh had no idea what the etiquette for this was, and she wished now that someone had written a book about the hurdles which came with being a step-mother to a young boy who remembered his actual mother all too well. 

“We talked about it before you and Dad got married, when you were just ‘Auntie Shelagh’, and he said then that I could call you whatever I liked, if it was all right with you. So I went with ‘Shelagh’, because I didn't really know how I felt about it then”.

“Oh” said Shelagh. She briefly wondered exactly when that talk had happened, and resolved to ask Patrick later that night. 

“So, can I call you mum, now, so that by the time the baby arrives I'm used to it? I mean, I might forget sometimes, but I won’t mean to”. The look in Timothy’s eyes was one of desperation to be included in the world they were planning.

“I’d like that, very much. If you’re sure?”

“I'm sure, Mum” Timothy tried out the word, once so familiar but now a little foreign. 

Shelagh couldn't stem the flow of tears any longer, the dam bursting as she stood up and clutched Timothy to her. 

“Don’t be soppy Mum, it’s not cool” said Timothy, hiding the tears that were now falling down his cheeks by rubbing his face on Shelagh’s apron.

“No, absolutely. Not cool,” replied Shelagh, hugging him a little tighter even so.

Timothy, wiped the last of his tears and stepped back, “Can I go and play out? When’s tea?” 

“Yes, of course. Tea will be ready when your father gets home, in about an hour” Shelagh smiled, trying to recover herself, “and this Victoria Sponge should be just about ready by then”. She tested the surface of the cake, the same springing back from her touch lightly. 

“OK. Bye mum” said Timothy, running down the hallway, the door banging shut behind him as he hurried outside. 

“Bye Timothy” said Shelagh, to an already empty hallway, “Bye Son”.


End file.
